


clandestine endeavours

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fuckbuddies To Lovers, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 06:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13584654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: It starts out as something like stress-relief - somewhere to channel their unrequited and unwanted feelings. But it becomes somethingmore, and neither of them really mind.





	clandestine endeavours

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Coming Down by Halsey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRXO77hJGKA)
> 
> PS This is probably not as good as I think it is bc I haven't written smut in 9 months

_Sometimes the best mistakes start out as just that: mistakes._

Kenjirou doesn’t know how he got here.

He says that all the time.

But with his back pressed up against pillows, hands holding down his hips, he knows _very well_ how he got here.

Lips press a trail of kisses down his jaw, teeth nibbling, mouthing at the bone. It’s almost too gentle, and his hands rise, threading through shorn locks, yanking the other back.

“Harder.” It’s a whisper, a command. He fuses their lips before the other boy has time to say anything, pressing against him with the amount of force he wants reciprocated.

A low growl; he feels it in the place where their chests meet, where they fit together. Hands rise to sandwich his face, almost crushing his jaw. His partner pushes him down – his head hits the wall with a dull _thunk_ , but he does not mind, no. All he wants is the crushing pressure, the hard insistence of the other, the overwhelming sensations and overpowering presence – he wants to forget, if only for now.

(It’s another thing he says all the time.)

A hand slips beneath his head anyway – cushioning the sore spot, but also pushing his head up, tilting his chin. A deeper kiss, teeth scraping his lower lip.

He does not mind this, not at all.

So he doesn’t let himself think – lets his hands move, mapping a terrain he has come to know well. Trailing down a broad back, feeling each bump of his partner’s spine, caressing the muscles that seem more and more developed each time he lays his hands on them.

He’s jealous, bitter – but he loves his partner’s physical aspects, even if half of that passion is wrongly fuelled. His nails dig in, tearing streaks into that delicious back; he feels the arch of his partner’s spine, the gasp that leaves his lips. But most importantly, he feels the jolt of pleasure as the action causes his partner’s hips to press down, causing their members to rub together. And if a gasp of his own escapes, neither of them mention it.

“You will be the death of me.” A low murmur, almost a growl – anger and pleasure rise in him at the sound of his partner’s voice, and oh, Kenjirou can’t help himself.

“Not if you kill me first.”

He doesn’t get to see the flash in his partner’s eyes – the room is too dark for that. But he hears the snarl as he is pinned down, as lips crush against his – his gasp is swallowed, eaten out of his mouth. His legs shift, move up, wrapping around his partner’s waist, forcing their cocks together, drawing groans from them.

He almost doesn’t hear it, but the sudden withdrawal and rustling on the table beside them makes it all clear, makes him turn the words over in his mind.

_God, I need you inside me._

Then he feels the slide of rubber over his cock, the coolness of lube spilled and slicked. It feels so good, but he refuses to let his partner do all the work – he won’t be one-upped, even in this.

Kenjirou sits up – fingers finding a wrist, tracing up to the bottle of lube. He tips it, the gel cool on his fingers, then clicks it shut.

“Let me.”

It’s a command, and he hears a grumble, but not a protest. He pushes his partner back, off of him, his clean hand slipping from the boy’s shoulder down his chest, down his toned stomach.

He’s perfect, and it’s _unfair._

It is dark, but his eyes are accustomed to the low light, and he reaches forward, prodding at the ring of tight muscle – circling gently, lightly, teasingly. He can hear the other groan, hear the shudder in his breath. “Hurry up.”

It sounds like a directive, so he slows down. Brushing, teasing. Stroking lightly, pressing in a little, but never really opening him up.

“For god’s sake, Kenjirou, hurry up–”

He slides one finger in – hears his partner’s head fall back, hitting the bed. Kenjirou can hear his ragged breath, and slides deeper, dipping in and out – slowly, slowly.

“I’m going to die.” It’s a whisper – not meant for his ears. But his face splits with a grin, deep satisfaction rooting in him, and he eases another finger in.

He can feel the clenching of the ring of muscle – too tight, too much tension. Kenjirou reaches up with his free hand, tracing the smooth skin at his partner’s hip, trailing down towards his member but never quite touching. Feather-light, skimming, teasing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

His partner is shuddering beneath him, his attention diverted – the muscles clenching around Kenjirou’s fingers are no longer as tight, and he presses in, sliding a little deeper. In, out. In, out.

A hand reaches out towards his – but misses. He feels the brush of fingers glancing off his forearm, hears the hoarse voice. “You can move. Keep going.”

He adds a third finger, waiting for the muscle to adjust, thrusting shallowly, pressing in. The heat around his fingers feels so good, and he begins to push deeper, easing in gradually, wriggling a little. Scissoring just a bit more, lazily, unhurriedly, until he feels that the pressure has eased up.

He pulls out, hears the shaky exhale, taps on his partner’s hip with his free hand. “Pass the lube.”

Fingers fumble as the bottle is passed over, as he pours the liquid over himself and slicks his cock up again. Drops the bottle on the bed, lining himself up, and dips in.

He can’t feel the tautness of the sheets where his partner grips them, but he can feel the clench of muscle around his dick. The small taste is enough to make him lose his rhythm – he pauses, waiting, only moving when he gets reminded.

He is all in, waiting – the sounds of their mingled breath are harsh, and he wonders how he had not noticed before.

“Move.”

Another command, but this one, he is willing to comply with.

Kenjirou wipes his fingers on the bedsheets, finding his partner’s knees and lifting them, pressing him back. He can’t remember what he was doing before – how awkwardly was he positioned? Was he bent over, like a man uncontrolled, rendered weak by the desires of his flesh? He cannot remember, he is so out of it.

He pulls out, slides back in. Gently, gradually, feeling the clench of muscle – refusing to move faster yet.

Two can play at this game, and right now, he is in charge.

But the odds are stacked against him, and his movements begin to speed up even though he wants to draw it out. They move out of sync – drawing apart and coming together awkwardly, and though the sensations are building up slowly, surely, he is beginning to tire of the pace.

He changes his angle, pressing up – hard. A loud gasp makes him grin – a point for him. He moves again.

But now it is as if his mind is open; his senses are on alert, the sensations pouring in. He hears their harsh breaths, the soft moans and gasps his partner lets out, the occasional whimper that is almost too soft to hear. Maybe, a choke on a word – something that he thinks might be his name. It delights him, and the smile never leaves his face, not as he ups his pace, not as he reaches forward, hand wrapping around his partner’s cock.

The gasp is louder this time, a strangled thing. Kenjirou squeezes experimentally, hears the other’s breath stutter – he decides he likes this, all too much.

But his brain is beginning to disconnect – he is too close to the edge. He pumps the cock in his hand, angling his thrusts up, pressing, pushing, forcing his partner towards the edge.

“Kenjirou– _Please–”_

He gives a few more rough tugs, feels the clench, the squeeze of muscle around him. His hips jerk out of pace, something hot spills into his hand. He thinks his mouth might have fallen open as he rides on that wave of pleasure, and for a few seconds he knows nothing – nothing except the rush of sensation.

It is over all too soon, and he feels sluggish as he pulls out, as he moves away, wiping his hand on the sheets. He sits back, pulling the condom off and tying it, mind pleasantly blank. He feels the dip in the bed as his partner sits up, as fingers thread through his hair and pulls his head back. He welcomes the kiss that comes, the other pressing gently before teeth take his lower lip in, biting tentatively, as if testing the give of his flesh.

Kenjirou never could help himself. He submits, reaches a hand up to grip starlight locks – the colour hidden by the darkened room. He presses in, but without the same insistence as before – he is content, for now.

They part and come back together – but there’s nothing as hungry in their actions now, and they are slow with each other. Almost, almost tender.

“I think I might love you.” Words Kenjirou doesn’t expect to hear – never expected to hear. But perhaps it is the post-coital haze, because he does not feel so averse to this idea. A nagging feeling inside him insists that some part of him echoes that sentiment. But dare he admit it? Not so long ago, he would not have felt this way at all.

(He wasn’t sure he felt this way when he entered the room, so what had changed between then and now?)

“What a surprise, Eita.” He has to mock him – where is the fun without it?

He pauses, thinking – prodding experimentally at the insistent feeling in his chest. He is never this contemplative, but something about the rawness of the moment – he thinks he might dare to voice it, after all. “You know what, maybe I love you too.”

A light chuckle in his ear, a nip on his jaw. It’s teasing – something else he didn’t expect. “This wasn’t meant to happen.”

“No.” He has no difficulty admitting this.

“I could live with you, maybe.”

“That’s my line.”

“You are the thief, not me. I didn’t ask you to steal my heart.” The movements of the hand in his hair make him sleepy, and he doesn’t bother to protest – to say anything at all. Not this time, not with this new acceptance sitting comfortably on his person.

“Okay, no, you are not falling asleep on me. Let’s go shower.”

Kenjirou doesn’t protest when his hand is taken, when he is tugged off the bed. When he is pushed into the bathroom, and warm water cascades over him.

He doesn’t complain too much when he is forced to help with changing the sheets, with opening the windows so that the heat of their coupling might dissipate. He doesn’t complain when he is given a shirt too big for him, when he tugged beneath fresh sheets. He doesn’t complain about the body sharing the bed with him – because he doesn’t know the words to, because he is still a little stunned, a little too breathless with the situation unfolding.

But he falls asleep anyway, dreaming of someone so beautiful that he can’t touch them – someone so beautiful that he hates and adores them at the same time.

And when he wakes beneath that person, his face buried in their neck – his neck – he can scarcely believe it. He wouldn’t have believed it, but for the sunlight lighting the silver-blond locks falling across his face, tickling his nose. He wouldn’t have believed it, but for the softness of skin beneath his fingertips, the sharp cheekbones he traces. The unearthly beauty that he still can’t comprehend, yet lays before him.

He still doesn’t know quite what he feels except that– That his unrequited feelings from before, they don’t feel quite as strong now. It feels like his gravitational force has changed, has become tethered instead to the one whose space he now shares, whose breath he takes in, matching inhale for exhale.

Kenjirou wonders a little, how he can appreciate Eita in the silence, but when they’re both awake and speak, they’re like magnets with similar poles – opposing, pushing away, always fighting, fighting.

It once felt like they would always be too similar, like they would have fought forever. But now they are lying skin to skin, sharing more than just breathing space – sharing perhaps, a heart.

When did they become magnets with opposite poles?

\-----

_Sometimes the best kept secrets are those hidden in plain sight._

Eita watches from afar, squeezing a ball between his hands. He needs to return to the court, but he takes his time walking back, eyes watching the players serve. Toss the ball up, hit. Toss up, hit.

His eyes drift to one person, boisterous and loud – he sighs in exasperation, because Tendou always tests Coach’s patience with his overly playful behaviour, and that means more serves for all of them.

But the serve that hits the ground before his friend is louder – clean and sharp. His eyes move back, catch the disappearing grin on his least favourite underclassman's face.

He doesn’t look away fast enough, and their eyes meet – a haughty cock of a brow, and he grits his teeth. He turns away, walking to the serving line, ignoring the clench in his heart.

Anticipation? Rage? Maybe the thrill of competition.

He tosses his ball up and hits it with uncanny precision – the copper-haired boy has to fumble to receive it, and the ball flies back over the net.

They don’t move for a second, staring the other down, challenging. When they turn away from each other, everyone else relaxes – crisis averted.

But in the space of a second, in the eyes of those who have communicated with heated glares for so long – this message is different. Different from all those that have come before. It is less about the intent to kill, and more of the desperate desire to fight a worthy opponent and come out on top.

And these two know – they will never find competition as good as on the court they share.

\-----

_The sturdiest roots are those built on rock; once you break through, there is nothing too tough to conquer._

Rays of the setting sun spill in through the window, splashing over textbooks, slashing through words and pages of work. The floor is a sea of white dashed with red and orange – warm hues with black currents.

Pencils scratch on paper, books are used as makeshift tables, propped up against knees. There are desks, but those are unemployed – why confine oneself to a limited space when the expanse of floor is so much wider?

Eita glances up from a particular difficult question, blinking over his spectacles. Kenjirou looks like a tortoise from where he sits: back hunched, neck stretched out, squinting at his work. Eita wonders how he is not cramped.

“Sit back. You’ll get a neck ache.”

He gets a glare – made more menacing by the sunlight reflecting off lenses. Kenjirou sits up anyway, his back pressed against the bed, his worksheet balanced on his knees. He has to push his glasses up, and the pout Eita glimpsed earlier returns to his lips. It makes him feel weird; Kenjirou looks almost cute, and his focus is lost to the wind.

“Stop staring and do your work.” Kenjirou is always cutting, always to the point. Eita huffs and throws a paper ball at him – it bounces off his knee, and Kenjirou turns his frown on him.

Eita shrugs, picking his pencil up. “You looked cute for a moment.”

“You are almost dating me, and you tell me this?”

“Because it’s _almost_ and not _actually_ ,” Eita points out. “You’re my favourite idiot, I like your dick, but your attitude still leaves something to be desired.”

Kenjirou glares. “Sometimes, I wonder why I ever thought I might love you.”

Eita grins and bats his lashes. “I’m charming.”

Kenjirou freezes. A paper ball is swiftly grabbed, the projectile hitting Eita square between the eyes.

“Ow!” The blond rubs at the spot, but Kenjirou isn’t looking at him any longer – isn’t facing him. His worksheet is propped on the bed and his back faces Eita; he hears furious scribbling.

Eita might have wondered what brought that on, but he thinks he knows.

The red tinge on the tips of Kenjirou's ears could be from the dying sun, or from a flush he refuses to show.

\-----

_The most lasting promises are those made in odd situations._

The puffs of breath over the head of his dick make his hands grip the sheets more tightly. The chilled point of a nose nudges his thigh, a mouth presses a tiny trail of kisses up the muscle – tantalisingly close, but never really reaching.

“Kenjirou, will you please _move_ –”

There’s a little vibration between his knees – Kenjirou’s shoulders shaking. “Only because you said please.”

Then his mouth closes over Eita's cock, and he nearly comes just from the heat of it.

Kenjirou pulls off, licking a stripe from base to tip, kissing the head lightly, dipping his tongue into the slit. Eita isn’t sure how he’s still sane – the boy has a wicked tongue, and he definitely knows how to use it.

The grip on his thighs tightens – his only warning of what Kenjirou is about to do. Eita has to choke back his cry – he doesn’t need anyone in the nearby rooms to know what they’re doing – but the action still has his muscles tightening, and he’s pretty sure his brain has short-circuited.

Kenjirou doesn’t just have a deadly tongue – his mouth is tight and hot and altogether _illegal_. Eita can’t remember why he agreed to this in the first place.

Then he moves, and Eita thinks he might pass out. It feels too good – shivers of pleasure stacking up, building into a crescendo. He has to tug Kenjirou back by his hair, but the action does nothing. Kenjirou seems emboldened by the action, taking more of him in – the wet sucking sounds should _not_ be so delightfully lewd, they should not serve to arouse him further– But they do, they do, and Eita's grip tightens as he loses control, as he thrusts forward, the wave of pleasure crashing over him.

He vaguely registers it when Kenjirou pulls off, when he untangles the fingers still gripping his hair. He feels their fingers lace, feels the weight of a head against his knee.

He’s almost completely out of it, but he recognises the wet smacking sounds, the shuddering, shaky breaths exhaled over his thigh. He squeezes the fingers in between his own for Kenjirou’s attention. “Let me do that for you.”

“No. I just,” another shaky breath, “I want to finish myself, this time.”

But his fingers squeeze Eita’s, and he holds on even as sharp inhales and pants rise from between his legs, even as Kenjirou pushes himself towards the brink. He is there when he reaches his climax, when his breath stutters and catches and holds – and after, when he’s trying to regain a semblance of his normal self.

Eita reaches for the tissue box balanced on his bed, pulling out a few sheets and handing it to him. He feels Kenjirou nod against his thigh – his hand feels strangely empty now that Kenjirou has taken it back.

He knows it’s not the best of ideas, but he brushes the hair out of Kenjirou’s face, smoothing it back. He loves the feel of his hair – silky, smooth. He feels like he could pet him forever.

He hears a soft sigh, but no cutting remark. He scrapes his nails gently against Kenjirou’s scalp, tugging lightly on the strands, and is rewarded by another sigh. Heavy, wistful. Content.

Eita wishes he could carry on forever, but he is getting cold, and Kenjirou can’t be comfortable kneeling. He pulls back despite the whine he hears, slipping his hands under his partner's arms to lift him. Guides him towards the bathroom, where they strip their remaining clothes off and take a shower.

He always forgets that the shower space is too small for both of them, that their elbows bump every time they try to move. But this time is different – this time, they don’t argue. Kenjirou allows Eita to lather the shampoo in his hair, making contented little sounds at the fingers massaging his scalp.

Eita smiles and tugs on his hair; Kenjirou looks up – he looks sleepy. Eita wants to laugh – he’s always sleepy after they have sex – but leans in instead, kissing him, tasting the salty-bitterness of himself on his partner’s lips.

A hand sneaks around his waist, another curling against his back. Kenjirou tiptoes a little, pressing deeper, licking into his mouth. He is still making those contented noises – a hum, now, and Eita can’t understand why he finds it so endearing.

“I'll wash your hair too.” Kenjirou still looks sleepy – eyes half-shut and a small, sincere smile – but his fingers are sure as they pour out the shampoo, and Eita turns so that he can put it in his hair.

It’s really too comfortable – how is Kenjirou good at _everything_ – but they manage to finish shampooing and showering and brushing their teeth before either of them fall asleep. Replacing the sheets is second nature to them now, and it’s done quickly enough that they’re still shower-warm when they collapse in each other's arms. It occurs to Eita to pull the blanket over them, and Kenjirou nuzzles his neck, a gentle sigh escaping.

“Eita?”

“Yeah?”

The time for talking should be long past – but sleepy Kenjirou says important things, and Eita reluctantly opens his eyes.

(Kenjirou’s eyes are closed.)

“I think I love you, for real.”

Eita says nothing, but hides his smile in copper-coloured hair. “I might love you too.”

“Promise me something?”

Eita doesn’t need to think before agreeing. “Anything.”

“Wait for me after you graduate.”

It’s a no-brainer. “Of course. Who do you think I am?”

Kenjirou makes a noncommittal sound. “Marry me, too.”

“We can’t do that in Japan.”

Kenjirou sighs and pulls back – Eita can just tell that his eyes are open, and warmth leaves his back as his partner holds up a finger. Wait. His pinky finger.

“Marriage is a promise, isn’t it? So promise me.”

Eita wants to sigh, but his lips are turned up, and he’s so full of warmth for this ridiculous boy. He pulls his hand free, hooks his pinky through the proffered one. “I promise you.”

“To love me forever.”

“I’ll love you forever.”

“And you’ll always be with me, even if we cannot be legally acknowledged as partners.”

“I’ll be with you, through everything and no matter what.”

There’s shifting, and Eita is only a little surprised at the mouth that rises to capture his. He kisses back leisurely, tiny pecks that turn into something longer – until they remain static, lip-to-lip.

It doesn’t last, and they break into smiles, giggling at the absurdity of it, their foreheads pressed together as their bodies shake.

“Won’t you promise me something too?” Eita asks, after the laughter has passed.

“Yeah.”

“Promise you’ll always come back,” Eita says. “No matter how badly we fight.”

Kenjirou is silent. It’s a promise as important as the ones already made, because everyone knows how badly they fight and fall apart. But he feels the shifting, the nudge – feels their pinkies twine. Feels the little bob, the shake of acknowledgement.

“I promise.”

(Kenjirou never breaks promises.)

\-----

_Some say a red string ties people together; some people believe you weave that string yourself._

Autumn is Kenjirou’s favourite season – Eita says it’s because he likes killing the dead leaves underfoot. Kenjirou doesn’t like how it’s worded, but he never disagrees. He likes crunchy leaves.

Autumn is also halfway through the school year – the heat of summer leaving, a pretty coolness in its wake. It’s the time when the days start to get shorter, when nobody says anything if he drinks too much spiced tea, when he remembers the time that his heart decided to betray him.

(So he says, but he’s not really complaining.)

He walks in circles on the grass, the crunch of fallen leaves rising up. In the distance, he thinks he spots slicked-back red hair and excited gesturing, and the broader figure beside him.

Two years ago, the sight would have made him resentful – jealousy morphing into something more dangerous. But today he hides his smile in his scarf and delivers a leaf its second death, his eyes searching the empty park for someone else.

He walks a few more rounds before he hears crunching behind him; looks back to take the proffered hand.

Eita’s hand is cold – his hands are always cold. But Kenjirou’s hands have always run too hot, and the opposing temperatures make for something comfortable between them.

“How did you find me?”

(Kenjirou doesn’t need to ask, but he likes to.)

“I followed the sound of dying leaves.” Eita’s eyes gleam with the tease, and Kenjirou pinches his hand. It’s habit now – something done in good fun, without any of the maliciousness that they used to have.

Their feet take them out of the park, following the roads until they hit the junction, until they hit the crowds. It’s almost no effort to blend in until they reach the door to the mall, but even then they do not drop each other’s hand.

It’s uncrowded, and if anyone wanted to comment on their joined hands, they could have. But perhaps people decide to turn a blind eye, perhaps they have other things to do – perhaps they think that it won’t last. But whatever they think, Kenjirou really doesn’t care.

Window shopping is Eita’s favourite pastime, and Kenjirou will never admit that he has come to enjoy it as well. There’s something fun about walking round and round and looking at what society calls fashion, inhaling the scent of freshly baked bread, watching other people going about their lives. Sometimes Eita suggests getting hairclips for their messy hair – Kenjirou thinks that he might agree one day, if they ever see any clips that are particularly pretty.

But today their destination is the spectacle shop – how both of them had managed to break their spectacles within a few days of each other is a mystery, but Kenjirou had needed a new pair anyway.

The shop is empty of customers, and the clerk asks them to review the frames they want. It’s a process that takes too long because they keep throwing jibes at each other – try the bigger frames, try the oval, the round frames. Maybe it’s because they’re used to seeing each other with rectangular frames, because each one they try on looks ridiculous.

The clerk finally suggests that one of them can take their readings while the other chooses, and Eita graciously decides to go first, leaving Kenjirou in peace.

He feels only slightly foolish trying on the various frames by himself, but it doesn’t take long for him to find a few designs he likes. He’s inspecting a red pair when he spots Eita’s reflection in the mirror – he never gets to warn him against saying anything before he hears, “That looks nice.”

Kenjirou does not take the spectacles off to try a more boring pair, of course he doesn’t.

But looking between the few choices he has, he doesn’t know why he keeps going back to the red pair. He was certain he liked the blue better, before.

The clerk calls him away to take his measurements, and he leaves his choices on the table to follow. It’s a quick process – though his myopia has worsened – and he emerges from the side room to see Eita trying on the blue pair he thought he had wanted.

(If he stops breathing for a second, no one but him knows.)

Eita looks up with a crooked grin, swapping the blue for a deep purple pair. “Which looks better?”

 _Both_ , he wants to say. _You look good in everything._

“Blue,” he says instead. “Purple looks tacky.”

Eita rolls his eyes and hands the blue pair to the clerk. Kenjirou picks the red up again, swapping it with a black pair.

“The red looks good on you.” It’s said in a small voice, sincere. Kenjirou looks back at Eita, catching his smile. “Really.”

Kenjirou needs to find out how to stop his heart from doing the flopping thing whenever Eita smiles.

But still he hands the red pair to the clerk, and they get a quotation and a reminder to come back in an hour.

Neither of them are hungry, so they keep walking, pausing in front of shops sometimes. It’s Kenjirou who pulls them off the path and into a shop – Eita has to keep from laughing, because their roles have reversed. Kenjirou’s usually the one who avoids hair accessory shops.

But he plays along, even when Kenjirou pushes his fringe back with sparkly clips, even when a tiara comb is nestled in his hair. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror – he looks ridiculous. Kenjirou laughs at his expression and adds a flower pin on the other side, grinning. “Now you’re perfect.”

“I look ridiculous.” Eita doesn’t remove the pins from his hair, but reaches for a simple clip, a single blue flower on the end. He pushes Kenjirou’s fringe back, pinning his hair. Lifts his chin so that the gems catch the light. “You look pretty.”

Kenjirou flushes and pulls out of his grip, glancing at himself in the mirror. “I look ew.”

“Not blue flowers?” Eita teases. “Maybe this one.”

It’s a clear flower; it doesn’t look as nice as the blue. Kenjirou frowns at it, reaching for a pair of pink butterflies. “The blue was nicer.”

“Light blue? Dark blue?” Eita’s fingers skim over the hair clips while Kenjirou removes the ones already embedded in his hair, fitting the butterflies in their place.

“Dark.”

“Hmm.” Eita picks out a few, offering them to him. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and pauses, tilting his head to watch the gems catch the light. “This is really nice.”

“That’s because I have great taste.” Kenjirou plucks the hair clips from his hand, holding each up to his hair. “But yours isn’t too bad.”

“You are horrible.”

“But I’m still prettier than you.” Kenjirou picks a clip and pins his fringe back, turns to pout at him through his eyelashes.

Eita can’t reply – he thinks some strangled sound makes it out. Kenjirou looks surprised before he begins to laugh, weakly defending himself when Eita jabs him with hair clips. “Stop! Stop!”

“Don’t say anything,” Eita mumbles. He can’t look at him as he replaces his makeshift weapons. “You are going to kill me.”

A hand on his arm stops him, but the gentle smile on Kenjirou’s face is not what he expects. His partner reaches up to pull the butterfly pins from his hair, adding them to the blue flower already nestled in his palm. The copper-haired boy grins at his surprise, tugging him down to whisper, “You know you’re the prettier one. Don’t worry about it.” He disappears towards the cashier before Eita has time to react to his words, or to the light kiss left on his ear.

\-----

_Plants need sunlight, water and warmth to grow. Human hearts need a little love to bloom._

“Kenjirou, get out and go study already.”

“Stop rushing me, Taichi.” He throws a glare over his shoulder before he pushes his fringe back, pinning it with the flower clip. “If you want more time with Yamagata-san, you can just walk to his room and collect him.”

“It’s not as if you don’t want to spend more time with Semi-san. I’m helping both of us here.” Kawanishi watches him from where he’s half-hanging off the bed.

“Ah, shut your trap.” Kenjirou dumps his books in a bag, scooping up the small box that was hidden behind the books. “Oh hey. These aren’t expired, you can have them.”

Kawanishi catches the box; does a double-take when he reads the label and almost falls off the bed. “Why are you giving these to me?!”

“You need a push.” Kenjirou shrugs and heads for the door. “Just bang him already, why don’t you.”

“These are _your_ size, they’re not gonna fit me!”

“Yamagata-san’s about my height, give them to him.” Kenjirou grins at his best friend’s spluttering, opening the door and taking a step out. “Lube’s in the top drawer.”

“You are a _menace._ Get out, don’t come back ever.”

“More time for you to use those.” Kenjirou calls in a sing-song voice. He hears Kawanishi whine as he closes the door, and laughs all the way to his destination.

Yamagata is no longer in the room when he knocks, and the door has barely closed behind him when Eita has him against the door, lifting his chin and sealing their lips.

Kenjirou doesn’t complain, hand lifting to thread through ash blond locks, pressing more tightly against his lover. His tongue traces his lips, teeth lightly scraping. Pulling apart to settle back together, the taste of Eita familiar and delightful.

He doesn’t know who pulls away first, but their foreheads are resting against each other, and the look in Eita’s eyes makes him feel warm. “What?”

“I missed you.”

It’s raw and honest and Kenjirou has to stop himself from looking away. They should be long past the stage of turning away from each other whenever one of them says something sappy or embarrassing – but they’re not. Every whisper of adoration feels like the first time – the time when they finally realised that maybe they weren’t just bodies to each other.

“It wasn’t so long ago that you saw me,” he returns, his voice light, teasing. He tilts his head to steal another kiss – he loves feeling the plush flesh of Eita’s mouth against his own – before he breaks away, dumping his bag on the ground.

Kenjirou turns back, smiling at where Eita remains, stunned. “Hey.”

The ash blond looks at him, blinking rapidly. As if broken out of his trance. “What?”

Kenjirou sighs, but he’s not really exasperated. He just needs to stop smiling so much whenever Eita is involved. “I missed you too.”

His lover smiles weakly and moves towards him, tugging him towards his bed. “But it wasn’t so long ago that we saw each other.”

“No,” Kenjirou agrees – even though they are his own words. He settles on the bed, Eita’s chest warm against his back, his arms encircling him. “But I missed _you._ ” He rests his head against Eita’s shoulder, tilting back to kiss his jaw.

The arms around him tighten; a head bends to knock against his, and he can feel the rumble the vibrates through both of them. “You are my favourite idiot, have I said that?”

“Only every day.” Eita never means it maliciously; he just doesn’t know how to use endearments. Neither of them do. “You’re my favourite too.”

“Glad to hear it.”

His hand is lifted, each knuckle kissed. Kenjirou would feel amused, but he has long since come to accept that Eita has a Thing for his hands. He watches quietly, because there’s nothing more beautiful than Eita when he gets in one of his dreamy moods. It’s warm where he sits, surrounded by the scent of someone he loves, and he doesn’t mind at all.

There, he said it. He loves him.

(It only took him two years to realise it was real and not imagined.)

Eita looks up, meeting his gaze. Smiles a little, leans in to rub their noses together. “I really, really adore you, you know?”

“You’re the biggest sap. I know.”

Eita grins, kisses the corner of his mouth. “I want to hold you forever.”

“You can’t, because I’ll want a turn at holding you.” His cheeks burn as he says it, but Kenjirou doesn’t turn away – Eita’s mouth has fallen open with shock, and it’s always funny to watch him like this.

But he doesn’t say anything more, leaning in. Kisses the surprise out of Eita, until they’ve fallen and are rolling on the bed, grappling.

It’s no surprise that Eita ends up on top, pinning Kenjirou down. No surprise when he grins and collapses atop him, peppering his face with kisses. Slow, languid. Gentle. Quick and fleeting and surprising.

Until he tires of it, capturing his lips for a last kiss – Kenjirou’s lower lip slotted between his own, and he nibbles it gently before he pulls away to lie beside him, resting his head on his chest. He can feel the hand that rises to card through his hair, tugging lightly, working out any tangles. It’s pleasant, and his eyes begin to close – contentment is a blanket that covers him, and he’s not thinking of much else.

“We should be studying, you know.” Kenjirou doesn’t sound very convinced himself.

Eita grumbles a little. He doesn’t want to move. “Later. Nap.”

“You’re like a cat.” There’s a low laugh that he hears and feels – a rumble through the chest he’s lying on. “But okay.”

 _Okay_ is the highest form of acknowledgement Kenjirou gives, and Eita smiles. He can feel the rise and fall as Kenjirou breathes, can smell the scent of him where his nose is pressed against his shirt.

He sighs a little. He’s almost asleep, but he has to say it. “Kenjirou?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

The rise and fall stops, the heavy _thump-thump_ he hears grows quicker.

But time resumes, and Kenjirou starts breathing again, even though his heartbeat doesn’t slow. “I love you too.”

Eita’s not very concerned about the erratic heartbeat he hears – he smiles and lets his eyes close, melting into the renewed sensation of fingers threading through his hair.

(Maybe one day, they’ll be able to say it more easily to each other.)


End file.
